He came up to me, looking forlorn and ill. His hair sticking out at all sorts of angles, the natural curls exaggerating the mess. I felt like putting my fingers through to comb them but I knew it would annoy him, so I didnt.
Instead I merely listened to him croak.
He wasn't well, that was obvious. I touched his arm and neck instead. He was hot.
The nurse in me arose and I prescribed paracetamol to get the temperature down. The "Christian" in me said, "Pray for him," so I did. The mother in me told myself not to be concerned... but I was.
He hardly ever falls ill, but when he does, it is in style.
Furthermore, soon he will leave home. When he falls ill there, who will take care of him?
It doesn't matter how old the child is. When they are ill, it is a matter of concern for any parent.
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